


Viper

by Itylien



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bad Spelling & Grammar, Captivity, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-07 21:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itylien/pseuds/Itylien
Summary: Hungry - she decides. She’s hungry.





	Viper

**Author's Note:**

> It was hard to choose the rating. It's not explicit porn as I understand it. It's not mature because there's no mature themes here. I'd go teen and up but with the warning being what they are someone might report me.

Viper

 

Being a captive on a pirate ship sounded like it should be exciting. Like it should be scary. It sounded like a once in a lifetime adventure. Danger. Risk. A change from her regular routine of frilly dresses and flower vases.

Instead she knew the grain of the wood making up her cell as well as she did the halls of the pension her father sent her away to - impatient for her to grow up, unwilling to oversee the process.

Before the pirate ship she was just as imprisoned on the trading vessel her father commissioned to deliver her to the colonies. Though admittedly there she was a prisoner more like the way she was as a child at the estate - having her every need tended to but not actually free to explore.

Feeding her eyes and mind with the workings of the ship from afar, unable to touch anything, unable to speak to anyone.

She was not excited now. She wasn’t even scared. She was bored.

She spend her last five years in the state of constant boredom - bored of her teachers, bored of the girls send to the same pension. Bored of her lessons, bored of preaching priests, bored of the proper books in the proper library that the pension permitted for its charges.

Traveling to the Colonies was supposed to break the boredom but who would have known that weeks of sea voyage also filled heart and mind with numbing boredom.

Even now, in this cell, imprisoned by men closer to animals than people in their smell, their look and their deeds she was bored of the fear.

This was one thing that she was unprepared for - the reality of living with fear. How hard it was to remain fearful in face of inevitable. The captain had already raped her twice, it stood to reason he will do so again and she just… didn’t have it in her to despair.

Instead - boredom. Instead her mind inscribed patterns into the wood grain - old battles, constellations of the stars that she barely remembered after so many weeks below decks. Beasts and gods of the old mythos. Angels and flaming swords and demons with fire in their veins…

The doors open to the inside, so tight they scrape into the floor gathering splinters along the way. Last week she would already be curled into herself in the further corner of the cell, but right now she barely lifted her head from the nest of what she suspected was sailcloth she was carried onboard form __Good Fortune__ wrapped in. Good fortune indeed. The cloth was coarse, so coarse it burned her knees the first time the pirate forced himself upon her, but also warm and even somewhat comfortable after she arranged it to her liking.

It was hardy enough there were no traces off all the tears she cried into it nor of the blood she was forced to wipe away from herself with it.

The pirate must have seen something in her face because the expression on his ugly, misshapen face turned wary.

“Are you sick?” he asked, placing the bowl on the ground. She didn’t reply, sitting up to reach the food. It might have been disgusting but it was all she was getting. Before she even touched the bowl the pirate huge, rough hand jerked her head back by the hair. She didn’t even feel him move.

“Are you sick girl?” he hissed into her ear, his breath hot on her skin.

“No.” She bit out through teeth, clenched against the pain.

The pirate was really generous with pain. Be it kicking her in the stomach, hitting her face or pulling her hair. Or raping her like he didn’t know the rules of conduct that stated the “hostages” were worth more the less damaged they were. She knew them. She had them explained to her by her father plenipotentiary before she set out into the infinite blue. They didn’t seem to be doing her much good now, with this animal of a man readying to bury its fangs in her throat again.

Instead of a bite that she was very honestly expecting the pirate pushed her away, hard, so hard her head bounced from the floor. Again with his uncanny speed the man had her dress up before she managed to gather her wits about her, but she had time to think of it, had time to rehearse in her mind what she was going to say when he came for her next.

“Let me undress.” she said, drawing her legs close, reaching to stop his hands. “Take me against the wall, like before.”

The second time, when she managed to gather her courage to try and reason with the beast. He almost broke her neck throwing her into the wall, pressing her into it until she couldn’t scream, couldn’t breath. Still she preferred it to defiling what little swatch of safety she managed to fool herself into pretending she has.

Not waiting for his reply she began to drag her clothes up over her head. She didn’t bother with stays, didn’t bother with the laces. Breathing was never as easy as it bacme in this smelly, dank cell. It seemed she managed to surprise the beast, at least enough for him to let her have it her way. He didn’t stop her when she stood up to lean against the wall, her hands as wide apart as her legs.

She would be ashamed to present herself such to anyone but him - she’s unwashed, her hair greasy, skin bruised. She knew he left marks on her even if she couldn’t see them. There was certainly a handprint on her neck.

It’s where he touches her now, probably fitting his touch over the bruise. She expects him to squeeze, expects him to press her down as he did before but instead he turns her, jerks her so that she’s no longer facing the wall but him instead.

Dry drag of penetration is unpleasant but also welcome. It hurts, but it hurts exactly how she remembers it did and sheer familiarity of it is soothing. Besides, she can’t imagine the motion being any more pleasurable for him than it was for her - not if his rasping, stuttering breath and clenched teeth are any indication. Why he is putting her through this if not to please himself she doesn’t know.

Up close his face is fascinating. Any face is when one has the leave to observe it as closely as she is looking into him now, but he is - in addition to simple human shapes of shade and angles - damaged. There is a crippling, disfiguring scar going through half of his face. One eye is missing, clearly replaced with a fake one. It is horribly mismatched - light and blue like morning sky while his own eye was hazel.

She’s watching him, letting herself ignore the motion, the pain, the intense feeling of being invaded for no-one’s benefit. There’s no thought involved in her reaching up to touch the scar bisecting his missing eye. It’s there. She already traced it with her eyes. Her trembling fingers will hardly do any more damage than the animal clearly withstood…

The man slammed her wrist into the wall behind her, stilled the motion of his hips a to better smother her with his body. There was panic in his eye - open wide, color hard to discern in what little light fell into her cell at sunset.

She wondered, idly, how it looked like the first time, when his living eye was damaged, white filled with blood from blows strong enough to burst inner tissue. It looks so normal now. She can’t understand the fear she’s seeing there.

“What? I can’t?” she asks when he does nothing but hold her still. She’s not fighting his grasp, she's not fighting him at all. Whatever happens is his will, his doing. Her wrist numb from his punishing squeeze, painful heat between her thighs - it’s all him.

He’s slipping from her and falling to his knees before her in the same motion. He is quick, he is fast and she doesn’t understand what he’s doing until his nose presses in her intimate curls, his tongue questing to find her body hidden in them. Even then she can’t comprehend what she’s seeing, what she's feeling.

The same hand that he just rendered numb, that will soon bloom into bruises is covering her own mouth to quiet surprised gasps that escape her because she expected teeth, expected the beast to be looking for another way to hurt her down there and instead his wet, agile tongue is making her feel things that aren’t pain.

It isn’t long before her knees buckle, before she slides down and he goes down with her just to then hitch her up again, this time with her legs spread wide, hooked over his arms as he sinks into her again, this time with no pain to speak of.

She grabs at the wall first, gasping when something other than pain shoots up her spine, throwing her head from side to side, rejecting the pleasure because she doesn’t understand where it came from, why he suddenly decided to give it to her. She doesn’t want it and she tells him as much but he just laughs into her face. She knows his breath smells of her.

She is loath to waste kisses on this beast, there is nothing tender in his touch and she doesn’t want tenderness from him. It is mere instinct that has her cling to him, peppering kisses on the damaged part of his face as he ruts into her. The slide much easier now, the heat pleasant rather than burning and what little burn there is only serves to wind something in her tighter. She wants something, wants for it to happen even if she doesn’t know what it is. Even if she’s sure she doesn’t want it from him.

When it finally happens she’s angry. Sinks her teeth into the meat over his collarbones until she's tasting blood and he’s trying to dislodge her from himself. She's angry because he chose to hurt her when instead she could have had this from the start. Angry because it was unfair there was any pleasure to be found here, in him. By him in her.

She bites him again, for good measure, drawing blood again, and this time he pushes her away with force, slams her into the wall and rips away when her head is still spinning with it.

“You Viper.” He says, his tone of wonder rather than reproach. He touches his fingers to the bites, startles when they come away bloody. She can taste the salt of it, the tang of metal like a song on her tongue. She’s looking up at him, doesn’t have anything to say but also nothing to shy away from. Doesn’t feel violated as she had before. She doesn’t know what she feels.

Hungry - she decides. She’s hungry. She reaches for the bowl and starts eating it’s disgusting, congealed contents. He’s still looking at her. Fake eye impassive, but the real one shines. She eats. She knows she’s going to need the strength.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Also this is the only ship I recognize from Black Sails. I laughed the show in the face when it tried to sell me on Billy.  
> No show. No.


End file.
